an' owre the hill to nanie, o.
my nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
nae artfu' wiles to win ye, o:
may ill befa' the flattering tongue
that wad beguile my nanie, o.
her face is fair, her heart is true;
as spotless as she's bonie, o:
the op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
nae purer is than nanie, o.
a country lad is my degree,
an' few there be that ken me, o;
but what care i how few they be,
i'm wee aye to nanie, o.
my riches a's my penny-fee,
an' i maun guide it cannie, o;
but warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
my thoughts are a' my nanie, o.
our auld guidman delights to view
his sheep an' kye thrive bonie, o;
but i'm as blythe that hands his pleugh,
an' has nae care but nanie, o.
e weel,e woe, i care na by;
i'll tak what heav'n will sen' me, o:
nae ither care in life have i,
but live, an' love my nanie, o.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—green grow the rashes song—green grow the rashes
a fragment
chor.—green grow the rashes, o;
green grow the rashes, o;
the sweetest hours that e'er i spend,
are spent amang the lasses, o.
there's nought but care on ev'ry han',
in ev'ry hour that passes, o:
what signifies the life o' man,
an' 'twere na for the lasses, o.
green grow, c.
the war'ly race may riches chase,
an' riches still may fly them, o;
an' tho' at last they catch them fast,
their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, o.
green grow, c.
but gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
my arms about my dearie, o;
an' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men,
may a' gae tapsalteerie, o!
green grow, c.
for you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
ye're nought but senseless asses, o:
the wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
he dearly lov'd the lasses, o.
green grow, c.
auld nature swears, the lovely dears
her noblest work she classes, o:
her prentice han' she try'd on man,
an' then she made the lasses, o.
green grow, c.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns song—wha is that at my bower-door song—wha is that at my bower-door
tune—“lass, an ie near thee.”
“wha is that at my bower-door?”
“o wha is it but findlay!”
“then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here:”
“indeed maun i,” quo' findlay;
“what mak' ye, sae like a thief?”
“oe and see,” quo' findlay;
“before the morn ye'll work mischief:”
“indeed will i,” quo' findlay.
“gif i rise and let you in”—
“let me in,” quo' findlay;
“ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din;”
“indeed will i,” quo' findlay;
“in my bower if ye should stay”—
“let me stay,” quo' findlay;
“i fear ye'll bide till break o' day;”
“indeed will i,” quo' findlay.
“here this night if ye remain”—
“i'll remain,” quo' findlay;
“i dread ye'll learn the gate again;”
“indeed will i,” quo' findlay.
“what may pass within this bower”—
“let it pass,” quo' findlay;
“ye maun conceal till your last hour:”
“indeed will i,” quo' findlay.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns remorse: a fragment 1784
remorse: a fragment
of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
that press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
beyondparison the worst are those
by our own folly, or our guilt brought on:
in ev'ry other circumstance, the mind
has this to say, “it was no deed of mine:”
but, when to all the evil of misfortune
this sting is added, “blame thy foolish self!”
or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
the torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—
of guilt, perhaps, when we've involved others,
the young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
o burning hell! in all thy store of torments
there's not a keener lash!
lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
can reason down its agonizing throbs;
and, after proper purpose of amendment,
can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
o happy, happy, enviable man!
o glorious magnanimity of soul!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epitaph on wm. hood, senr., in tarbolton epitaph on wm. hood, senr., in tarbolton
here souter hood in death does sleep;
to hell if he's gane thither,
satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
he'll haud it weel thegither.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epitaph on james grieve, laird of boghead, tarbolton epitaph on james grieve, laird of boghead, tarbolton
here lies boghead amang the dead
in hopes to get salvation;
but if such as he in heav'n may be,
then wee, hail! damnation.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epitaph on my own friend and my fathers friend, wm. muir in tarbolton mill epitaph on my own friend and my father's friend, wm. muir in tarbolton mill
an honest man here lies at rest
as e'er god with his image blest;
the friend of man, the friend of truth,
the friend of age, and guide of youth:
few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
few heads with knowledge so informed:
if there's another world, he lives in bliss;
if there is none, he made the best of this.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epitaph on my ever honoured father epitaph on my ever honoured father
o ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend!
here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
the tender father, and the gen'rous friend;
the pitying heart that felt for human woe,
the dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
the friend of man—to vice alone a foe;
for “ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.”
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns ballad on the american war ballad on the american war
tune—“killiecrankie.”
when guilford good our pilot stood
an' did our hellim thraw, man,
ae night, at tea, began a plea,
within america, man:
then up they gat the maskin-pat,
and in the sea did jaw, man;
an' did nae less, in full congress,
than quite refuse our law, man.
then thro' the lakes montgomery takes,
i wat he was na slaw, man;
down lowrie's burn he took a turn,
and carleton did ca', man:
but yet, whatreck, he, at quebec,
montgomery-like did fa', man,
wi' sword in hand, before his band,
amang his en'mies a', man.
poor tammy gage within a cage
was kept at boston—ha', man;
till willie howe took o'er the knowe
for philadelphia, man;
wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
guid christian bluid to draw, man;
but at new york, wi' knife an' fork,
sir-loin he hacked sma', man.
burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip,
till fraser brave did fa', man;
then lost his way, ae misty day,
in saratoga shaw, man.
cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,
an' did the buckskins claw, man;
but clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
he hung it to the wa', man.
then montague, an' guilford too,
began to fear, a fa', man;
and sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
the german chief to thraw, man:
for paddy burke, like ony turk,
nae mercy had at a', man;
an' charlie fox threw by the box,
an' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.
then rockingham took up the game,
till death did on him ca', man;
when shelburne meek held up his cheek,